


just a young heart

by kissmeinnewyork



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, Smillan - Freeform, first fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 00:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2130993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one band, multiple heartbreaks, a lot of alcohol and, finally, new york. || karen and the babes band au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just a young heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fanfic on ao3 although I have been posting on ff.net for about three years now. I really hope you enjoy this--all feedback is welcome, as long as its polite and constructive! x

 

**Part One**

When Karen moves to London, she doesn’t think it’s to join a band—at _first._ At first, it’s for university, like pretty much every other person her age: to study art history, because she’s so bloody indecisive that she can barely agree on what to have on her toast for breakfast let alone choose art _or_ history so in the end she settles for both. It’s safe and it’s somewhat normal for a degree, even though she knows it’s going to be impossible to find a job in the end of it. But that’s okay with her. Karen’s weightless; she goes where the wind takes her.

She spends the first few weeks getting into things and establishing a routine: it takes her what feels like forever to memorise her path to lectures across campus and even longer to navigate the tube system, but she ends up liking the anonymity of it and the way she can slip through crowds effortlessly like a tiny fish in a massive ocean. Karen’s from a miniscule town in Inverness—a combination of bright red hair and unforgettable laugh means that she gets recognised everywhere back home, all the people her age knowing her since primary school and nearly every one of the adults has been her babysitter at some point. In London it’s the exact opposite, the only people who know her are the people on her floor in halls and the ones that decide not to directly ignore her in class.

It’s one of said people, a petite, brunette-haired girl called Jenna (they bond over their incapability to find the cafeteria nearest their hall and end up at a different place each time so they safely call each other friends just so they don’t feel totally inept on their own) who invites her out the third Saturday of term.

“My boyfriend’s friend owns a club in town,” Jenna informs her, books laid out in front of her. Karen and Jenna don’t actually share a class—Jenna’s doing an English degree, so there’s no coinciding with art history—but they like to study together in the library anyway. “They do an open-mic-karaoke-thing every so often and it’s always a laugh, mainly because no-one is ever any good.”

Karen chews the end of her pen thoughtfully. She used to sing a lot in her teenage years, but her parents had always said that it wouldn’t get her anywhere (cue art history, which seems just as redundant to Karen in hindsight) but she thinks it might be nice to stretch her vocal chords again. And Jenna’s one of the only people whose asked her anywhere off campus (other than a few creepy lads she definitely does _not_ want to go anywhere with) so it’s an offer too good to refuse. “Sure. Sounds good. Where about is it?”

Jenna smirks, glad to have recruited someone. “Near Leicester Square. Don’t worry about it, my boyfriend can give us a lift.”

That’s great news to Karen’s ears, because she’s still not totally sure where Leicester Square is. She flips her textbook to the next page. She’s not really reading it to be honest: Jenna’s a fountain of gossip, who knows things about people she doesn’t know yet is still somehow interested in. Jenna could probably make maths interesting. “Your boyfriend has a car, then?”

“Of course he has a car,” Jenna snorts, “Trust me, if he didn’t have a car we would not be dating.”

The curl of her mouth indicates that she’s joking—Karen realises, through the casual way she mentions him and the small smile that stays on her face long after, that she’s in love. Karen’s never felt like that: she’s never felt like her heart’s trying to push its way out of her ribcage, blood pumping ferociously round her body, like the Earth’s rotating just for her and the way she feels. She’s never felt broken, either, so she guesses that’s the one good thing about being unattached.

***

Jenna’s boyfriend is called Richard and he’s tall and handsome (and, kudos, also Scottish) and he _does_ own a car (albeit a shitty red Toyota which sounds like a child screaming when he puts the key in the ignition). He greets Karen with a kiss on the cheek and takes Jenna under his arm, her tiny frame completely swallowed by his hefty torso, but they look so right together anyway. She tries not to stare at the tender and intimate moments between the two of them—the way he brushes the hair out of Jenna’s eyes, her fingers curling round his just so they can be close—but often she can’t help it. She’s never seen two people look so at ease with each other before.

Karen sits in the back while Jenna takes the front. Compared to the outside of the car, with the doors sprayed with mud off dirt-tracks and a slightly crumpled bonnet, the interior is surprisingly clean; there’s only one empty bottle on the floor and the two seats beside Karen would be empty if it wasn’t for the stacks and stacks of CD’s which, on further inspection, looks like every band/singer Karen has ever heard of.

Richard catches her looking in the rear-view mirror and he chuckles, running his free hand through russet curls as he backs out of the street. “Yeah, uh—sorry about the mess. Just push them to the side if they annoy you.”

Jenna rolls her eyes. She turns in her seat to look at Karen, one eyebrow raised. “I’ve been telling him to move them for fucking months,” she insists, “I’m telling you, Karen, _never_ get with a music type. They procrastinate to the point where it’s _infuriating._ ”

“Yeah, well, don’t get with a literature type either,” Richard adds, “They’re arrogant as fuck.”

Jenna whacks him on the arm good-naturedly while Richard merely laughs, and Karen lets them continue like she’s not in the car at all. She’s always been good at reading people, couples: they’re bickering, but they might as well be saying _never let me go._ Instead, she rummages through Richard’s CD collection. She’s impressed that he’s got so many modern ones as well as those from earlier in the century and the last, seeing as most people tend to download music from iTunes now (her own library on her iPod brimming with music from every genre she can think of) from _Of Monsters and Men_ and _the 1975_ to _The Beatles_ and _Noah and the Whale._ She thumbs the paper sleeves carefully, admiring the bold colours in the artwork and the impeccable care Richard obviously takes of his music (more than he seems to do than his car).

“You’re really into music, then?” Karen asks during a gap in conversation. She leans forward so she’s closer to both Jenna and Richard, elbows resting on either side of their seats.

Richard seems a bit taken aback by the question, especially as she’s been so quiet the majority of the ride, but he answers anyway. “Yeah, absolutely. Always have been. It’s like an obsession.”

“You can say that again,” Jenna mutters under her breath and Karen laughs, “All the time I’ve known him he’s been jumping from one band to the other, forcing me to listen to recordings of this new group who he’s convinced are going to be the next big thing.”

“Some of them have EP’s out now!” Richard argues hopelessly, but Jenna waves him off.

“It’s a good job that I’m into indie stuff otherwise I’d have dumped him ages ago,” she assures Karen, Richard gasping with disbelief, but Karen’s _totally_ unconvinced.

“Thanks, Jen,” Richard murmurs—his voice is light, like he never gets tired of saying her name, “Karen probably thinks I’m a loser.”

“No… It’s cool,” Karen remarks sincerely. She swallows a snort when she sees Richard grin smugly at Jenna, “Really cool.”

“Thanks. That’s more than I get from her,” he gestures towards Jenna who just grins, shaking her head. “Are you into music at all, Karen? Jenna says you do art history.”

“I do,” she confirms: the more she says it, the more she wishes she wasn’t. “But yeah, I am. I used to sing quite a lot and I’ve played the piano since I was a kid.”

Richard nods, impressed, while Jenna looks slightly startled. “You don’t sing anymore?”

She laughs and bites her bottom lip. She’d dreamt of being in a girl band up until the age of about thirteen—she used to crave crowds yelling her name and her voice filling a stadium and her album on the shelves in HMV, but then she joined high school and people told her to _get real_ and she realised the closest she’d ever get to stardom was performing in her friend’s brother’s garage to a crowd of people she’d known from birth. Everything seemed pointless after that. “Not really. Outgrew it, I guess.”

Jenna gasps, rotating in her seat. “You are definitely singing tonight. I need to hear you sing.”

Richard hums in agreement. The city blurs past her window, bright lights and people and worlds away from what she’s used to but she’s somehow never felt more at home. It’s not in her bloodstream, not yet: but it’s soaking into her bones. She laughs at Jenna’s expectant look. “Yeah. Fine. I did _agree_ to come to a karaoke night, Jenna.”

Jenna looks satisfied. “She’s going to put us all to shame, now. The only regular who’s ever any good is Arthur.”

“Hey—I never said I would be any _good,_ I haven’t sung properly in years,” Karen interrupts, but she sighs when she realises that Richard and Jenna are chatting away now and back into their couple-y bubble about some guy named Arthur and his guitar and other local bands that could be making an appearance.

She only catches snippets as the engine roars loudly, masking words:

“…He might bring Matt, I’ve heard that they’ve started playing together…”

“Matt? Christ, he wouldn’t be seen dead…”

“He’s written some new lyrics, god, he’s a fucking genius…”

“…Duet’s never work, Richard. It’ll be over before it’s begun…”

She presses her head against the window, glass cool against her cheekbones. Her breath creates clouds of condensation like it’s mapping a path that’s too quick for her to follow.

(She wants a path. She wants something to go down—well, she thinks it’s something, but it turns out to be someone in the end).

***

Richard parks his car a short walk away and Karen’s surprised they’ve managed to park at all, as London is incomprehensibly busy at all hours of the day. The streets are always packed out with people: tourists, hipsters, businesspeople, drunks. She could write a book on the groups that push by her on a daily basis and she’s barely been here four weeks. That being said, she tries to stick as close to Richard and Jenna as possible—she’s not used to the leery glares she gets as she passes by certain males, and it’s way too early for them to be drunk enough for Karen to be remotely okay with them staring down her cleavage.

(Just to reiterate, she’s not okay with it _at all,_ but at three am after way too much tequila everything is a bit of a blur by then. She brushes off slurred flattery and dodges clumsy limbs trying to collide with hers.)

Richard’s mate’s club is called _Luna_ and it’s tucked away between a couple of restaurants and a photography studio. The first word Karen can think of is metallic, the blues and silvers reminding her of the moon and the grasp it has on the tides, the Tenerife Sea. There’s a queue which carries a few metres down the street, but Richard knows the bouncer at the door so he gets Karen and Jenna in quickly without having to wait (to the annoyance of the crowd outside who she gleefully ignores). Inside, it’s packed almost to the brim, people laughing and dancing to the DJ on the main stage near the back of the club. The karaoke isn’t due to start for another twenty minutes or so and when Jenna drags her to the bar she quickly scrawls their names on the set-list.

“I can’t sing for shit,” Jenna calls over the pounding bass, blue lights contouring her face, “But I’ll be halfway to drunk by then. What about you? What do you want to sing?”

“Just put any Spice Girls song down,” Karen says and Jenna smirks, knowing. If she’s singing, she’s fulfilling her fantasy of being Victoria Beckham, even if that’s in front of loads of mildly-drunk strangers in an even stranger city. “I know them all.”

“Off by heart, backwards and in French, I presume.”

“ _Spanish,_ ” Karen corrects jokingly and Jenna laughs. She’s having a good time already.

Richard gets the first round of drinks in and introduces Karen to a bunch of people she forgets the names of almost immediately, only stopping to chat to the ones who are willing to buy her drinks. She only drinks whiskey because she’s Scottish and she’s willing to fulfil the stereotype, and it also impresses the people who watch her chug shot after shot and she’s not even tipsy. She says she’s Scottish, and that’s what they do. They fry things and they drink. A lot. Jenna promises to buy her anything fried she wants later if she’s still standing up straight at the end of the night and Karen agrees instantly, because she can drink any of these English idiots under the table.

(It doesn’t quite end like that. She doesn’t end the night with Jenna, at least.)

She hangs around with Jenna for most of the time and the pair of them dance and scream lyrics near the front of the stage, along to whoever has signed up before them. Most of them are spectacularly horrific, howling pop songs off-beat and out of tune with a half-finished beer in their hand without a mic, but it’s so funny and the pair of them laugh so much they have to hold onto each other to stay standing. The only person who is any good—and when Karen says good, she means that the guy could be a _professional—_ is Arthur, who she vaguely remembers Jenna and Richard nattering about in the car a couple of hours previous. He has a guitar slung over his shoulders and dusty-blonde hair which falls into his eyes, and he announces that the song he’s about to sing is one that he’s actually wrote himself and not from a _Now That’s What I Call Music_ album.

Richard joins them just as Arthur throws himself into the music. He plays the guitar like it’s an extra limb: a part of him, like he feels incomplete when he’s without it, and Karen’s _enthralled._

“Told you he was good,” Richard comments, arms wrapped round Jenna’s waist and her head crooned into his shoulders. Arthur’s sound isn’t like anything she’s heard before; it’s scratchy and warm and _new,_ not like the heavy beats and electronic sounds from before. It’s not a song you can dance to but no-one is bothered. The crowd sways, couples holding onto each other.

Karen just nods and her eyes don’t leave Arthur for the rest of the performance. For a moment, she wishes he would open his eyes—he screws them shut the whole time, like opening them was a betrayal to the emotion he’d put into his music—just so he could see her. She doesn’t believe in love at first sight and she doesn’t believe this is it, but she does believe you can fall in love with the way someone makes you feel. It’s the equivalent to having someone’s arms around her, like Richard and Jenna, the way Arthur’s sound seeps into her bones and warms her from the inside out.

When he finishes, Arthur throws his arm triumphantly in the air and grins. The people in the club roar with applause (Richard yells _I’m your number one fan_ jokingly which makes Arthur flush ever so slightly and gives him a thumbs up and a _thanks for the support, pal)._ Karen finds herself screaming and Arthur sees her, in his peripheral, and throws a smile over his shoulder as he leaves the stage and the presenter (some guy who is actually called Guy, and Karen’s at the level of semi-drunk where she finds that funny) follows up.

“No Matt, then,” Richard murmurs to Jenna. She shrugs, not looking surprised—I told you, she says. Matt doesn’t do karaoke. He’s too fucking haughty.

Guy has a clipboard in his hand and a microphone in the other. Karen would usually think he’s attractive with skin the colour of rich mocha and cropped black hair, but she’s still high on Arthur. “Next up is… Karen, with _Wannabe!”_ Karen raises her arms high in the air, the crowd roaring, Jenna whooping from next to her. Guy gives her an amused look as she makes her way onto the stage (not trying to trip over her own feet) and says, “And, I’ve got noted down here… In Spanish?”

Karen gives Jenna a pointed eye roll from her spot centre-stage: the, roughly, two hundred people scattered about the club either laughing or cheering. She realises with a swoop in her stomach that this is the biggest crowd she’s ever performed for. She knows it’s just karaoke and she knows no-one is expecting much and she knows her bloodstream is at least fifty percent alcohol, but it makes her nervous nonetheless.

“Not in Spanish,” she iterates as Guy hands her the microphone. “God, I can barely do English.”

It’s not a fact that anyone argues against and she doesn’t know whether to be offended, but Guy leaves her and she loosens her body and throws herself into the opening _I tell you what you want_ and it’s like she never stopped singing. This song is her life, she decides, because it’s cheesy and lame and doesn’t make sense in the best possible way and _everyone_ loves it and the vigour she has.

(Karen’s different to Arthur, Richard says to Jenna a bit later on. She’s incredible, she fills a room, she has this _energy._ Like whenever she opens her mouth you have no choice but to stop and listen.)

When she finishes her voice is hoarse and red hair has spilt messily all over her face, but she’s never felt so free. It may be because she’s drank five shots of whiskey and the adrenaline pumping so furiously round her body that she feels she could burst but, honestly, it could be because this is what she’s always wanted to do.

Jenna hands her a beer (“Sorry, I can’t deal with the whiskey”) and an almost gobsmacked look when she returns to the floor. Her chestnut eyes are wide and she looks so comical, like an animal in an old Disney cartoon. “When you said you could sing, I didn’t think you meant like Christina fucking _Aguilera!”_

_Definitely_ Beyoncé, but she lets it slide. She takes the beer and lets the liquid warm her aching throat, soothe her muscles. “I have my talents.”

Jenna snorts. “Understatement, Karen. You’ll have people buying you drinks the rest of the night. Or re-enacting their Emma Bunton fantasies.”

She scoffs a laugh at Jenna’s bluntness and the two of them sit by the bar for a while instead of up at the stage. It crawls on for one am now and the club shuts at three, and Jenna’s thinking about getting Richard to take them home. They don’t fancy taking the tube, seeing as Karen is totally inept at reading public transport timetables and Jenna’s a bit more plastered than she is so wouldn’t be exactly reliable. She loses Jenna amongst the crowd as she goes to look for her boyfriend and for a few moments, she’s alone—

—until she feels the presence of someone sitting beside her, and it’s a glimpse of a grey _Joy Division_ t shirt and scruffy blonde hair that indicates he’s Arthur. She tries to hide her mouth as she smiles into her glass.

“You were pretty amazing up there,” Arthur says—he talks like he sings, low and sort of croaky. He orders a rum and coke. “You don’t tend to get amazing people here. Amazingly _awful,_ maybe, but not amazing in the good sense.”

He’s rambling but she likes it, so that’s alright. “Thanks. You weren’t too bad, either.”

He smirks. So she’s one of _those_ types. “Spice Girls fan? Very 1996.”

“Don’t mock the Spice Girls. _Ever._ ” Karen warns seriously, pointing her index finger at Arthur. He grins and it should infuriate her, but she feels too golden to care.

“Okay, okay. Fine. I won’t,”—spoiler, he most definitely will—“Are you into anything other than cheesy late-nineties pop?”

She raises an eyebrow but lets it slide, taking a sip of beer. Arthur watches her closely. She wonders if he gets absorbed in everything he does or asks, because he’s studying her the way she reads David Levithan books—intensely.

(It’s not everything: its two things. At first it’s one thing [music] but, later, it becomes two.)

“Yeah. Of course,” She was going to leave it there, but it’s obviously a question that needs a longer answer. “Um… Ed Sheeran, I guess. The Script. The Fray.”

Arthur just clamps his head in his hands and she elbows him, offended. Yeah, they’re not indie-little-heard-of bands which people seem crazy about lately, but she likes them. She also likes show tunes [ _a lot_ ] but she leaves that bit out, not because she’s embarrassed, of course. It’s just another part of her she’s not willing to give away.

“What? What’s wrong with them?”

“What’s _wrong?_ Oh God, Karen—I never want to see your iTunes library.”

Karen pouts. “You’re a music snob, aren’t you?”

Arthur looks affronted, eyebrows knitting together. “No, of course not! You’ve just got horrific taste!”

“That’s _exactly_ the kind of thing a music snob would say.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, and he takes a swig of rum. Karen mouth curls and her bottom lip tucks underneath her teeth. _Fuck,_ she likes him. And it’s taken two minutes. She really, really likes him. “I can’t help being cultured.”

“Educate me, then,” she says, and Arthur almost chokes on his drink. He gazes at her, like he’s trying to find a glitch in her system which reveals it—her—as a joke. But she’s deadly serious and her chin is in her palm and she wants him to tell her everything there is to know about everything ever.

“Oh—right. Okay. Yeah. That’s…” She blinks, lips set in a fine line, crimson hair contrasting with the porcelain of her skin.

(It would just be inappropriate to waste the moment and not kiss her.)

***

She wakes up in a bed that’s not her own with an unfamiliar duvet which feels odd against her bare legs—but the most startling thing is smelling coffee which actually smells _good_ and not like it’s been brewed in a sewer like the stuff from the machine at Uni. It takes a couple of minutes for her to adjust and she rubs her eyes, wincing at the slight pain throbbing away at the peak of her skull (it’s not the worst hangover she’s ever had: that involved a lot of vomit and a small dog, and luckily none of those things are around. Yet.).

She’s wearing a t shirt that isn’t hers and her own clothes/belongings are strewn lazily across the floor. It starts to come back to her, slowly, then all at once; Arthur backing her against the wall and his hands tracing the curves of her body and the taste of rum, bitter, on his tongue. She takes in the scent of the fabric covering her chest—its cigarette smoke and black cherries and cedarwood, and it’s how she imagines it would be. There’s a packet of Marlboro Lights on Arthur’s nightstand and wood panelling covers his floor. It’s actually quite a big room (much bigger than hers but that’s no feat in the scheme of things) with a double-bed and a wardrobe and a desk and two different guitar hung on his wall, but the window is even better. It’s right above the bed so she barely has to tilt her head to look out and see London and cars and civilisation. She’s also about three floors up but doesn’t remember any stairs.

(There’s also posters everywhere: postcards and record sleeves, photographs of him with different people and the only consistent this one guy with a floppy fringe. Wow. He’s _definitely_ a music type.)

She reaches out for her mobile which is hidden under her dress on the floor. The green light is flashing, indicating a new message, but she quickly realises it’s just a snidey comment from Jenna about leaving with someone other than her. It makes her smile, nonetheless, memories from last night flooding back to her in small bursts. Everything making sense.

Arthur brings her coffee in a chipped yet thankfully clean mug (which is better than she was expecting, to be frank) and it’s the best coffee she’s had in London. Karen tells Arthur that and he snorts with laughter.

“The coffee you’ve been drinking must be fucking dreadful,” he comments, taking a sip of his own, “Because this is from the Sainsbury’s basics and trust me, it’s basic on so many levels.”

She eats buttered toast and strawberry jam messily in his bed but he doesn’t complain about the crumbs spilling onto the sheets. She brushes them onto the floor and promises to vacuum (an empty one, it seems, because she trips over the cord half an hour later and Arthur says she’s an occupational hazard). While Arthur showers Karen takes liberty in poking around his flat because last night is still hazy, hidden under a foggy sheet of whiskey and lazy guitar chords.

It’s poky but it’s nice: no matter what room she’s in she can still hear the pelting of water from the bathroom. The kitchen and the living room are attached—well, she says kitchen, but she believes the term is _kitchenette_ or _too small to really do anything in._ There’s a kettle and an oven and a microwave and a sink somehow all crammed into one wall, a table taking up most of the space on the linoleum which is covered in sheet music. Dirty dishes and mugs overflow from the sink like in the tiny kitchen at the university, each of the twelve students she shares the floor with claiming that they’d clean later but never actually doing so. The living room looks even smaller, somehow, but it could be because an electronic keyboard takes pride of place next to the back wall and the television is sat on the edge of it, like a second thought. There’s a sofa but it’s mismatched and old, one of the cushions fabric and the other leather, and a low-rise coffee table which sits in front of it covered in even more sheet music and mugs and takeaway cartons.

It’s blindingly obvious he doesn’t live here on his own, to Karen. She’s seen his bedroom—it’s not exactly tidy, but it’s an organised mess, like things are placed somewhere for a reason that only he knows. The rest of the flat is half that and half just generally unsystematic like someone else is moving things around.

(That, and the fact that there’s another bedroom. She likes to think it’s down to her spectacular deducting skills though.)

Karen’s tempted to take a look behind the closed bedroom door because he’s obviously not in, this mystery flatmate, but her hand is wrapped round the door-handle when she decides it’s too much of a violation. Curiosity killed the cat, after all. Arthur backs out of the bathroom at just the right moment, rubbing his wet hair with a towel in a jumper and jeans.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, bemused, hanging the towel round his neck. Karen can’t deny that he looks attractive with his hair dishevelled like that.

“Being nosy,” Karen admits. There’s no point in lying. If he wants to see her again that’s something he’s going to have to deal with: that if you open your diary, she’ll read it. She leans into the doorframe. “Who’s your flatmate, then?”

“Flatmate? Yeah,” Arthur says and she’s not sure what that means. He throws the towel into the bathroom, fingers raking through his scalp. “He’s part of the reason I came over to you last night, actually.”

Karen’s eyebrow quirks. “Oh—right. Oh! I didn’t realise…”

It’s Arthur’s turn to look confused. He takes the mug from Karen’s grasp and takes a sip, to her annoyance: but she allows it, because she doesn’t know anything about Arthur and he doesn’t know anything about her but she _feels_ like she does. “What are you on about?”

She coughs. “Uh, erm… I didn’t realise you were into _that._ ”

He looks up at her through blonde eyelashes over the brim of the mug. “What? Into what?”

Karen sighs. “ _Three-way._ ”

Arthur chokes on coffee, eyes wide in shock. “What! Fuck, no! What I was going to say was that we’re in a _band_ and we need a singer but… God, are you into that?”

“No!” she argues back profusely, “Absolutely not! I just _assumed…”_

“Seriously? I mention my flatmate and that’s the first conclusion you come to?”

“Fuck off! Just forget it,” she mutters, flushing hotly. Her cheeks match the colour of her hair. Alarmingly crimson. Arthur thinks it should be a colour on a B&Q paint chart. “What were you going to say?”

“Well, I was _going to_ say that Matt and I need a singer, and I saw you on stage last night and you’re it.” Arthur says. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he takes another swig of coffee. “Weird three-way whims and all.”

She kicks his ankle lightly but, oh, she’s walked straight into _this_ one, hasn’t she? “Is this Matt too-fucking-haughty-for-karaoke?”

Arthur’s walked away into the kitchen but his voice carries out into the small hall between the bedrooms and him. She hangs around, studying the pictures on the wall. It’s mostly concert ticket stubs—bands she’s never heard of, obviously. She runs her fingertips across the shiny card, thinking of mosh pits and lukewarm beer and raw voices. “Yeah… How do you know about him? Have you met before?”

“No—Richard and Jenna mentioned him, that’s all,” she calls out. She hears the rush of a tap and pottery clanging against a draining board. “I’m friends with Jenna. We’re in the same halls at University.”

“Oh—right! I didn’t know that. Or that you were in University. Or anything about you.” Arthur admits. The tap stops. Yeah, it’s sort of weird. They really don’t know anything about each other and Karen’s never been more okay with it. “What do you do, then? Music?”

“No,” and it comes out as a half-laugh half-scoff. “No, art history.”

“Art history? That’s a _real_ degree?”

“Yes!” Karen barks, offended—why is she still here? Arthur’s cynical to the point where it should be classed as unhealthy. “It’s good, actually. Interesting.” She can’t tell if she’s lying. “What about you? Not a student?”

“Nah. Well, I did a year, then my gap year turned into four gap years.” A cupboard door shuts. “I don’t know, I liked it, but I was doing philosophy and I was writing more music than essays on, in the scheme of things, stuff I didn’t care about whatsoever. So I dropped out and I started singing more and got a job in a library and admittedly I’m always skint but I was skint all the time in Uni anyway.”

Familiar story. You’re either drowning in student debt or drowning in London debt. You might as well take a plunge in the one you care about more.

Karen trails into the kitchen. Arthur’s tidying, throwing magazines into a rack by the sofa and piling up the music, like he’s trying to make the place a bit more presentable. It’s a bit too late for that—Karen’s had too big a glimpse into what he’s really like.

“This band, then,” Karen perches on the fabric side of the sofa. She rests her arms lazily on the back so she can watch Arthur potter about without having to move herself.

“You’re interested?”

“Maybe,” _Yes._ “I’m just trying to establish what I could be getting in to.”

“Well,” Arthur pauses, “Matt’s on keys and I’m on guitar, but we need someone that fits in between us. We both sing but we need a _singer,_ like you.”

Her ears go hot and she hides her face from him. She’s flattered, really, that he thinks she’s good enough to take vocals in a band where _he’s_ a singer. Arthur, whose voice captivated her last night in ways she didn’t think were possible, raw with emotion and secrets no-one else knows. She has a million different ways she could express how she feels but instead she says, “Right. Do you write all your own stuff, then?”

Arthur’s eyes glitter and he’s back where he belongs: talking about music. _His_ music. “Yeah, mostly. We do some covers but most of the stuff comes out of mine or Matt’s head. Matt’s a genius, Karen. Like… I don’t even know how to describe it, he just _knows._ ”

“Wow,” Karen mumbles, “That’s good, because I can’t write at all.”

Arthur chuckles. Like he knows something she doesn’t. “That’s what everyone says. So you’re up for it? Being in a band with two people you hardly know?”

Karen shrugs. Stranger things have happened. Like getting laid three weeks into term with someone she doesn’t directly regret afterwards. “As long as this Matt isn’t a complete tosser, sure.”

Arthur laughs and she doesn’t get the joke, his back turned away from her. “We’re screwed, then.”

***

(She gets back to halls a couple of hours later in last night’s clothes [even though Arthur tells her to keep the shirt she can’t very well walk out in just that, she’s not _that_ obscene] and the late September wind has her hair knotting in tangles all over her face. She’s the subject of gossip of the girls on her floor, who pester her about where she’s been and who she’s been with and _ooh, that’s not your jacket, Karen!_ She’s all too relieved to slam the door on them and fall back onto her own, rickety bed and stare up at the bland ceiling, mapping the cracks like constellations in a midnight sky. She has guitar chords in her ears and her heart thrums like a drumbeat.

Jenna pops her head round the door a few minutes later. Ooh, she says, playful smirk prevalent. Look what the cat dragged in.

She doesn’t reply.

Have a nice night with Mr Darvill, then? She continues to poke, not giving in. From what I’ve heard, he’s got a talent for strumming…

Karen chucks a pillow at her, but the door closes just before, cutting her off. It feels like a victory.)

***

They become a couple without anyone actually declaring their a couple—Arthur’s number is the most texted in her phone and she’s round at his flat every other night, watching TV and trying out harmonies and eating greasy takeaways straight out the box and more often than not without cutlery. He kisses her and it’s warm and lovely and it feels good, and the sex isn’t too bad either. Karen likes him, more than anyone she’s met at Uni—the guys on her floor are alright but they’re much younger than Arthur and she notices it more as she spends more time with each. They’re not passionate about anything, not even their degree, unless you count when football matches are on the telly or its half price beer-and-snooker night at the union bar. Arthur on the other hand: you’d cut him and he’d bleed music, she’s sure of it.

(This is all before she meets Matt, though.)

Jenna prods at her for details incessantly. Karen’s good at keeping the things which are private to herself, though, to Jenna’s annoyance—although the two of them do grow closer, sharing a bottle of wine between the two of them much too often to be considered healthy and talking about boys. Jenna declares herself a matchmaker because she believes that she’s the one that got Karen and Arthur in contact (even though their encounter was nothing to do with Jenna whatsoever, but if it makes her happy) and she promises to be at the front of their first gig when they finally get the band together. Duets never work, she says. But a trio might.

“Matt’s coming back Saturday,” Arthur says. They’re sat in the library where Arthur works: it’s a lot less convenient than the library at the university but she’s not complaining because she can study and spend time with him. It’s ancient, with shelves that trail all the way up to the ceiling and covered in books with leather-bound covers that need constant care and attention, Arthur re-binding and dusting volumes which look like they’ve come from a seventeenth century bookshelf. “So we can finally start practicing.”

“Oh,” Karen looks up from her book. She’s supposed to be planning her essay on Rene Magritte, but what’s she supposed to be doing and is actually doing are two completely different things. “Great! Exciting.”

“Not exciting.” Arthur corrects. “Matt is an awful human being. You’ll hate him.”

Karen grins, flicking a page. “Good thing I’m a professional, then.”

Oh God, she couldn’t be more wrong. She’s not a professional. At all. Especially when said professionalism is paired with Matt Smith.

***

Karen meets Matt that Saturday night at his and Arthur’s flat. At first, she forgets he’s supposed to be there at all—she turns up at Arthur’s door after being buzzed in in one of his sweatshirts and her hair piled on top of her head, curls almost as unruly as she is, and no makeup. She’s bought a pizza from the Italian down the street and the grease seeps through the cardboard, warming her fingers.

Matt answers the door, his hair wet like he’s just got out the shower. It almost feels like culture shock to Karen to realise that there’s someone other than Arthur standing at the door and something unfamiliar jolts through her, like someone lit a firework in her gut and it’s fizzing and spitting. The two of them just stand on the doorstep for a few moments longer than necessary, unsure on what to say.

“I didn’t realise we ordered pizza,” Matt mutters. He scrubs his scruffy, brown hair with the towel wrapped round his shoulders. He leans into the hall. “ _Arthur? Did we order pizza? Also, the pizza girl is looking at me weird.”_ He does a double-take, forehead furrowed, to check she’s still staring at him. She is. “I didn’t think there were pizza girls, either.”

“I’m not a pizza girl,” she argues, albeit a minute too late for it to sound sane. “I’m, uh, Karen.”

“Karen?” Recognition flits across Matt’s features. “Karen! Arthur’s Karen! _Arthur! Karen’s here!”_ He pauses to study her and he’s not even discrete about it, but first impressions and all that. “I didn’t think you would be ginger. Or Scottish. Or a pizza girl.”

Karen rolls her eyes, not even bothering to ask as she pushes past into the hall. Matt harrumphs, but she ignores him. “I’m not a pizza girl. I’m Karen.”

“Are you sure you’re not a pizza girl?” Matt gestures towards the box in her hands, “You’ve got pizza.”

“I’m not a pizza girl, and you’re not having any.”

Arthur chooses that moment to walk out into the hall and he sees the two of them, already bickering, and he thinks that maybe this wasn’t the best idea in the world. But Karen’s amazing and Matt’s begrudgingly brilliant and he’s not too bad either, so if he can somehow make it work this band could be the best thing that’s ever happened.

“ _Karen,”_ Arthur says, cutting their argument, “This is Matt. And Matt, Karen.”

Karen pouts, folding her arms. Matt laughs—when his mouth curves two dimples appear by his lips and his eyes are laughing with him. He’s attractive in an unconventional way, with a big chin (seriously, where did he get that chin?) and strong features and hair that curls right into his eyes.

(Oh. He’s the guy from the photos on Arthur’s wall. It makes sense, somehow.)

Karen huffs into the living room and throws herself onto the couch. The boys follow, but Matt’s infuriating and Arthur’s trying to keep the peace. In the end, he plugs Matt’s keyboard in at the wall and he gets his favourite guitar and tells them to play _anything, literally anything_ and he’s right. So right. This is the best thing that’s ever happened.

When they finish, the three of them sit in silence for a while, astounded at their own capability. It’s not perfect—Matt’s a little rusty, Karen’s voice wavers on the high notes—but it’s miles better from what they anticipated for a first shot. Arthur doesn’t know how him and Matt managed on their own. Karen belongs there more than they do.

(And Karen’s a little bit pissed off, because Matt _is_ a genius. He’s like Arthur with his guitar on the keyboard; as if it’s something he’s born to play—and his _voice. Fuck_. It’s like ocean waves crashing against her skeleton, all-consuming, leaving the bitter taste of seasalt on her tongue.)

“The pizza is probably cold,” Karen points out futilely, just so she fills the silence. Arthur and Matt nod. They eat it anyway, cold and all, and Karen wipes her greasy fingers on Matt’s jeans. She’ll put up with him, for now.

***

(“What do you think of Karen?” Arthur asks Matt later on, when Karen’s gone back to halls. They’re sat watching _Jools Holland_ repeats and dreaming of things they assumed would never happen. “She’s brilliant, isn’t she.”

It’s not a question and Matt realises: Arthur’s smitten. Well and truly smitten. It’s sort of adorable.

“She’s alright,” he says, sipping beer straight from the bottle. Truth is, Arthur’s not wrong, but that’s not something he’s going to admit. He remembers her singing and it’s unlike anything he’s ever heard—Arthur told him that she’s just a student with no musical experience other than karaoke and a bit of piano, but he finds that difficult to believe because her voice hangs and swoops like someone who has had professional training for _years._ But he’s Matt and he’s _too fucking haughty_ so he’ll never say that to her out loud. Not for a while, at least. It’s too early for confessions. “A bit Scottish, though.”

Arthur screws up his nose. “Bit racist there, mate.”

“That’s not racist, it’s just the truth.”

“Which is what a racist would say.”

“Shut up,” he says, with a laugh. It’s nice to be back home. And when he falls asleep later that night, he’s thinking about a girl with flame-red hair and a voice that could make the sun rise.)

***

Their first gig is in four days’ time, late October, at a club called _Alaska_ which Matt knows the owner of. They’re booked from ten until eleven which is a pretty decent slot, but there’s not a chance in hell that they’ll get paid for it. Karen doesn’t find herself minding, though. She just wants the exhilaration of being on the stage and hopefully a free drink or two. She starts spending more time at Arthur and Matt’s flat than the university, and when Matt calls her up on it she says it’s because the foods better but really, it’s the company, to Jenna’s disappointment—but she’s out with Richard and a lot of his mates most of the time, anyway.

Karen feels herself pulling closer to Matt and Arthur, like they have their own orbit, which makes no sense whatsoever because Matt bullies her incessantly and Arthur’s starting to become protective and defensive of her. They’re still “together”, in the sense they shag every so often and she sort of thinks of him as… Not her _boyfriend,_ but as the person she saw first and a person she likes. That’s the thing. Nothing really compared to that first night they shared together but it’s too late for her to declare it a _one night thing_ without it creating a rupture between them which she doesn’t to deal with in the aftermath.

She’s with Arthur _for ease_ and because she’s a coward and because she can’t deal with relationships. She values him too much to hurt him, which is becoming increasingly more difficult because _Matt._

He drops by one of the rare occasions she’s in her own room _actually studying_ for her half-term art history assessment, reading about Picasso and Monet and Van Gogh and quite a lot more artists she wishes she cared more about. He has a daft bowler hat perched on the back of head and comes bearing gifts: a punnet of cherries and a carton of dark chocolate ice cream.

She pretends like she’s not glad to see him, throwing her book down on her duvet. “Who let _you_ in?”

He gasps, pretending to look affronted. He closes her bedroom door behind him—she bets it’s because of Aria and Ellie, two of the girls on her floor, who still have nothing better to do than enquire about her life outside lectures. “I hope that’s not how you treat all your guests, Karen, especially ones that bring you gifts.”

“No. It’s only how I treat _you._ ” Matt throws his hat at her menacingly in the least menacingly way possible and she catches it, positioning it on her own head.

“Wow. I never realised that a hat could make you _more_ ugly.”

“You could just give me the food and leave, y’know,” Karen grumbles and he laughs, throwing himself on the bed beside her—the mattress ricochets under his weight and the springs squeak unnervingly. None of them do anything about it.

“Not a chance. If I’ve bought the food, I’m definitely eating it.”

Karen manages to keep in a laugh as Matt takes out the goodies from the Sainsbury’s carrier bag. The condensation from round the ice cream carton has dried, making it sticky, but he lays it on her duvet in anyway and peels the film off the top of the cherries. He’s come prepared, with spoons, and Karen takes one with a giggle as Matt makes a funny face at her. It’s melted a bit—the chocolate runs from the spoon onto her fingers, but it tastes good anyway. Rich and smooth like velvet. Like Matt’s voice, come to think of it.

“What’s this for,” Karen asks because she can’t not. “You don’t buy me nice things. You steal my chips when you think I’m not looking and hide my socks.”

Matt’s lips quirk, on the edge of a laugh. He swallows down a spoonful of ice cream (or just cream, really) and drops it to answer the question, wiping his hands clean by brushing them together. “It’s an apology. I was a dick to you when we first met, and I’m sorry. Even if you are a bit too Scottish for me.”

She whacks him on the arm, but he just laughs. It’s a rubbish apology, and it’s so overdue that she’s past caring, but he’s brought her cherries and ice cream and she knows it doesn’t get much better, so it’s good enough for her. “You’re a bit too English for me, so I guess we’re on equal footing.”

“I guess so.”

_(I think I need you.)_

Matt looks round her room and he realises that he’s never been in it before, but it’s exactly how he imagines it should be: it’s basic, but Karen _fills_ it like she fills every cell of his body, all colour and life and books brimming with poetry and ideas of romance. Post it notes covered in her familiar scrawl decorate every space on her wall, detailing the ideas of artists he’s never heard of and there’s small photos of her family, rare glimpses of Gillan life in the homeland. He can recognise a young Karen straightaway—her hair has always been the same shade of red, like she never grew out of it.

They eat cherries and play the disgusting game of let’s-see-who-can-spit-the-stones-in-the-bin from where they’re sat on the bed, which inevitably leads to a lot them landing on Karen’s carpet and leaving questionable red stains (and trying to convince anyone who looks in that no, she’s not murdered anyone. Ha-ha.) on the fabric. Juice spills out onto Karen’s chin and Matt wipes it away with his thumb, and it’s such a tender moment that both of them pause and stare at each other too long for it to be explained away, and Matt’s lips come so close that—

—Karen backs away, because that’s not right. Right? She laughs to disperse the feelings that have settled over them, but it doesn’t really do anything to help. Matt shuffles awkwardly on the bed.

_No, he’s Matt and he’s not yours and that’s not okay._

“Well,” Karen says and Matt looks up, unabashed. He’s totally over it. Karen doesn’t understand him at all—he’s completely unaware on boundaries. “Thanks for coming round. It’s been… Nice.”

Matt doesn’t laugh, exactly, but he exhales with a small smile. His hands rest lazily across his chest. He doesn’t leave for a while but they don’t talk either, just reading over her shoulder but none of them are actually reading. She’s painfully aware of the long and slow inhales and exhales and the tension pulsing between the two of them but she thinks of Arthur and how this could mean the end of the band before its even begun.

***

“What’s the deal between you and Arthur? Are you—“

“Together?”

“Yeah. I mean, the way he talks about you and I know—but are you?”

“I… Don’t know. Sort of. What about you?”

“Yeah. Um, yes. Before I met you, at Arthur’s, I was visiting my girlfriend in Northampton. Daisy. She’s called Daisy.”

“Oh! Right! I… Never knew that. Good for you.”

“Ha. Yeah.”

“…I guess we’re both unavailable, then.”

“Something like that.”

***

The gig is a _huge_ success, and Karen’s high on adrenaline and sweat sticks to her skin and her voice is raw, but the audience can’t get enough of their sound—Matt and Arthur are loving it too and even the two of them who are used to doing gigs say it’s the best one they’ve ever done. She loves it, loves it, loves it. Compared to the monotony of walking into the same rooms for lectures day in day out, performing sends her into outer space. She almost wishes she didn’t have to go back to reality.

Richard and Jenna, true to their promise, show up and stay right at the front of the stage the whole time. Richard volunteers buying the first round of drinks and the bubble of alcohol in Karen’s stomach only sends her higher into the clouds. Tonight, she can do anything.

Arthur takes her onto the dance-floor as soon as the next band comes on—it’s an electronic punky sort of group with a lead singer that has one side of his head completely shaved and the other an almost blinding blonde. They’re called _Funky Teeth_ which is pretty fucking weird, but they’ve got more of a name than Karen, Arthur and Matt have currently—at the moment they’re called _KMA_ which is something Arthur’s four-year-old niece could come up with, but they all have conflicting ideas about what’s cool so fail to come to a conclusion. They’ll think of something. Some day.

“You were amazing up there,” Arthur tells her, mouth inches away from her neck. It’s something she’s grown accustomed to. Arthur’s lips and her skin. “Absolutely incredible.”

“Stop flattering me. You’ll inflate my ego.” Karen jokes. Arthur laughs, slightly hoarse, but he looks happier now than he has in a long time. It’s the music, she thinks. It makes him happy.

(Arthur thinks it’s not just the music. It’s her. It’s Karen.)

Arthur’s hands slink round her waist. The music’s terrible, there’s no rhythm to it at all, but there’s a rhythm to the way his heart beats inside his chest and the way Karen sways into him. “No more flattery, then. I’ll stick to abusing your pathetic excuse of a CD collection.”

“And I’ll stick to abusing you on how you never knew that Beyoncé and Jay Z were married.”

Arthur’s face crumples into her shoulder. “It’s because my head is full of important things which aren’t in Heat Magazine.”

“Yeah, but Arthur, that’s just _general knowledge._ Like knowing that Madrid is the capital of Spain and that Jane Austen wrote _Pride and Prejudice._ ”

“Well, next pub quiz I go to, I’ll make sure you’re on my team. To provide all the _general knowledge._ ”

Karen smiles and Arthur smiles in ricochet, and he swears he’s never seen anyone so beautiful, inside and out. It doesn’t matter what light she’s under: whether it’s the blazing crimson from the club or the early evening sunlight sweeping over her cheekbones, he can’t find fault.

And Karen thinks Arthur’s perfect too, but there’s a little voice in the back of her head that says _but yeah, he’s perfect as a mate, isn’t he?_ She doesn’t know whether that little voice has always been there from the day they met or whether it’s Matt’s fault—he’s sat at the bar across from them at the club, sipping on a vodka and coke ( _“With lime and ice—seriously, don’t forget the lime and the ice. Very important.”_ ) and laughing at something Jenna says, and she thinks of that time they come so close it makes the hairs on the neck stand up…

But Arthur’s here. And Matt’s got Daisy. Ah, Little Miss Ambiguous. The girlfriend that he _never_ mentions and when asked doesn’t really mention her either.

Suddenly, Arthur’s fingers are entangled in her hair and his eyes are boring into hers and his lips are parted. It’s hard to make out his features in the dim light but she’s knows his face off by heart anyway. She’s known him for almost two months but it might as well be a lifetime. But for some reason, when he leans in to kiss her like he’s done so many times before—lazy afternoons spent with their legs intertwined on his bed, underneath the arch outside the library where rain drips from the bricks in front of them—but it feels different, somehow. It’s still nice—she’s not complaining, but it doesn’t feel so right any more.

Arthur retracts and he notices a blip. He frowns, slightly. “Are you alright?”

She glances over by the bar. Matt’s gone.

_Why is she thinking about Matt so much?_

“Yeah. Fine.” She slips her hands onto Arthur’s shoulders. “Absolutely fine.”

***

It gets to the point where it’s _ridiculous._

She goes to rehearsals and attends lecture and still loves being on stage, in the little pubs and clubs which are always owned by friends-of-friends, and she _loves_ the band. She’s still Arthur’s ‘girlfriend’ and she does normal girlfriend-y duties like lets him take her out to restaurants and walking her back to campus and a new bouquet of flowers every week. She’s still not sure if she’s 100% sure she wants to be this, but she’s living under the pretence that because they’ve never had a formal conversation about it that it’s not _actually_ real, which is stupid but, yeah. Indecisive.

It’s ridiculous, because she’s avoiding Matt. She ignores his text messages and pretends she’s busy with art history (which Matt knows immediately is a lie) and scurries off as soon as Arthur mentions he needs to leave when they’re altogether. And it’s sad, because Matt’s one of her best friends and she wants to spend time with him without thinking all the things she shouldn’t be thinking.

_have you and matt fallen out?_ Arthur texts and shit, he’s twigged.

_no._

_then why are you treading on hot coals round him? i’m not blind karen_

She can’t really say _because I really, really fancy him,_ can she?

_i don’t know. it’s nothing._

_i believe you, but sort it. do you want me to speak to him? did he say something?_

_no! i’ll sort it._

_good, because we’ve got a gig at a wedding in york and i want you two happy again. see you later x_

***

They meet in a pub that’s barely ten minutes from the university and a little longer from the DIY shop where Matt works (she thinks it’s the most ironic thing in the world, that a man who got frustrated about putting a shelf up in her room and had to stop for a break to watch _Grand Designs_ actually works in a place where he has to give carpentry advice _for a living_ ). It doesn’t take long for Matt to convince her it isn’t his first career choice and that his CV isn’t exactly reliable.

She waits for him at the bar, hair tied back in a sloppy ponytail and yesterday’s jeans because she’s been up since 4am finishing an essay and thinking about _this._ He spots her straight away and sidles onto the barstool next to her. Karen doesn’t look at him, at first.

She orders him a pint. “I’m… Sorry.”

The bartender hands Matt the Carling and he takes a sip, wiping the froth from his top lip. “Sorry for what?”

“You know what.” Karen reminds him. She feels the side of her face heating up and she curves her palms round her jaw to hide it. “It’s just…”

“No, no. I get it.” Matt tilts, pulling her hands away from her face. The contact is soft and serious, like for once he’s trying to do the right thing by her. “Forget about it, Karen. We didn’t actually do anything and you’re with Arthur…”

“And you have Daisy.”

“Yeah—Karen, look at me. Look at me.”

Her eyes leave the wood of the bar at Matt’s gentle command. She looks up at him and he’s more sincere than she’s ever seen him and it startles her for a second, like this person in her life is so much more important than she’s given him credit for.

“Karen, you’re my pal, and I don’t want you to be angry with me forever.”

“I’m not angry with you,”— _no, it’s more a maybe you’re the one that I’m sort of in love with—_ “I’m never angry with you. I’ve just been an idiot.”

“Can’t dispute that,” Matt offers and she elbows him gently in the side. He laughs shortly, slinging an arm round her shoulders and pulling her close. Her head lolls into him, hair tumbling down his chest in long, scarlet tendrils—and, really, he’s never going to see a hair colour like that again. “You’re a right one, Gillan. Don’t know what Arthur sees in you.”

And it’s better, like that, as if there’s nothing easier than the two of them spending time together.

***

The wedding they’ve been booked for is just before Christmas, which is admittedly a bit short notice (Matt expects a cancellation somewhere down the line) but the couple had seen them perform later in November in a club and instantly fell in love—by absolute coincidence the groom bumped into Arthur at the library and asked him if they were free on the spot and Arthur said yes conclusively. The three of them huddle round Arthur’s laptop to calculate how long it will take to drive from central London to York and, assuming there are no heavy traffic delays, it should take about four hours. Luckily it’s in Karen’s two week break from university and Arthur says that he can borrow his dad’s car to get up there as none of them have an actual vehicle—come on, it’s London. A car isn’t exactly economically viable.

“What name did you give them?” Karen wonders—three months on (almost) and they still can’t agree on it. They’re sat in Richard’s front room, who is throwing a pre-Christmas party, and the house he shares with two other men (one of them whose doing a history degree at the same university as Karen and Jenna and the other teaches guitar lessons) is dressed up in strings of white Christmas lights and sprigs of mistletoe. The house is brimming with people she vaguely recognises from various clubs and students she’s seen walking across campus.

“I didn’t give them a name.” Arthur admits, running a hand through his hair. He leans further back into the couch. “I just gave them my email.”

Matt snorts. He’s sat on the opposite side of the room, a whole armchair to himself, sipping on a lukewarm can of beer. “We need to get this name thing sorted out.”

Jenna pipes up from next to Karen. The two of them are sat on the floor with their backs against the coffee table and a bowl of salt-and-vinegar crisps propped between their knees, because the boys have such a lack of manners that they don’t offer any space on the couch. “You’ve been together _three months_ and done at least ten gigs and still don’t have a name?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and Matt shoots her a look, while Karen inhales another mouthful of crisps. She speaks with her mouth full and crisp crumbs spill out of her mouth, Matt muttering some sly comment with a withheld grin. “Because we all hate what each other comes up with.”

Jenna sighs, exasperated. It’s all so clear to her. “You should both go with what Karen says. You’re her _boys,_ after all.” She waggles an eyebrow. “Her _babes._ ”

Karen chokes on nothing and Matt’s completely perturbed by the notion that he’s Karen’s _anything_ let alone her babe (“Disgusting, Jenna. I don’t want anything to do with that disgrace.”) and Arthur’s mockingly annoyed and says _I’m her only babe, thank you very much._ But then a eureka moment flashes over his features and oh, he’s got it.

“Karen and the Babes.” Arthur says, sitting upright. “That’s it. That should be the name.”

Matt’s got an argument on the tip of his tongue but for some reason he can’t find the words to object—he’s so used to disliking anything on this subject but this time, it fits. He can see it. He glances over at Karen who looks just as excited, the smile on her face bright and warm despite it being frosty and cold outside. There’s something about it that makes him smile back.

“What can I say?” Jenna announces, arms thrown in the air, “I. Am. A. Genius.”

“Well,” Arthur scrunches his nose, “It was me. Really.”

Jenna’s prepared to argue that fact and stands up, knocking the bowl of crisps into Karen’s lap (who catches it just before the contents spills all over Richard’s lovely, beige carpet). Jenna’s only five foot two and a bit of a lightweight so it takes Karen’s hands round her calves to steady her. “You want to say that standing up?”

“What does that even mean?” Arthur contests. He’s comfortable enough in the groove of the sofa but Jenna grabs onto the wool of his jumper, her tiny fists not doing much to haul him up but the contact causes enough shock for him to stand. He towers above her, but the alcohol has caused Jenna not to really notice. “Oh. Right. What now?”

“It was _me_ who came up with the name, Darvill.”

“If we’re being pedantic—“

Matt’s howling and Karen decides to join him on the armchair with snacks, clambering onto the arm with as much grace as Matt calls later _a drunk giraffe._ Jenna continues to hurl abuse at Arthur who just stands there providing dry comments, the epitome of sarcasm and wit. It’s so funny that Matt uses his iPhone to record the whole altercation to possibly blackmail Jenna with when she’s sober. Karen scarfs more crisps and watches intently and realises that people are actively avoiding the front room, completely baffled at what exactly a tiny woman is doing throwing colourful curses at a man who just looks moderately amused.

Matt rests his arm across Karen’s thigh and for a moment, she feels her heart try to surge up through her throat—but it calms, pulse slowing, because she realises it for what it is. He’s one of her best friends. They’re allowed to be affectionate without it being interpreted it as something different.

Richard notices the commotion a few minutes later when he props his head round the living room door. He sees Matt and Karen laughing and spraying crisp crumbs onto his floor and thinks he didn’t expect anything less of the two of them, but he also sees his tiny girlfriend telling a man much taller than herself to _fucking admit it_ and even though it’s hilarious, it’s probably about time for him to break it up.

(Matt and Karen aren’t going to do it, obviously.)

He puts his hands on Jenna’s shoulders and pulls her away. She protests, at first, in the heat of the moment—but like Karen’s seen so many times before, Jenna loves Richard even when she’s a little bit drunk, so she does what he says and follows him through to the kitchen.

Arthur stays standing up, still slightly confused. “I’m not entirely sure what happened there.”

“None of us are, mate,” Matt says—he’s gone pink from laughing so hard. Karen snorts. “But let’s get more drinks to celebrate! We _finally_ have a name which isn’t absolutely shit!”

Karen whoops, throwing an arm in the air. Matt throws her off the armchair and hauls her on to his shoulders while she kicks and screams at him _to put her down_ but he absolutely won’t—he’s got into a habit of never doing what she asks. She yells at Arthur for help but he stands back and laughs, loudly.

“Karen and the fucking babes my arse!” she squawks, “You two are _not_ my babes! You’re both absolute shits which are not my babes!”

***

The night ends like this:

All three of them drink _way_ too much, including these cocktails which Karen calls _Boozy Claus_ because it’s Christmas and it’s a mixture of vodka, beer and orange juice—and it’s absolutely vile but they drink a huge jug of it between them anyway while Karen howls _Santa Claus is Coming to Town_ but replaces the word _Santa_ with _Boozy_ to fit in with the alcoholic theme. It gets to the stage where even Jenna is telling them to slow down even though she’s so past plastered that Richard has to guide her to the bathroom down the hall as her brain isn’t coordinating her legs enough for her to walk properly.

Karen spends the night lying across Matt and Arthur’s legs, with her shoes off and bare feet in the air. Matt mutters _God, Gillan, do you ever wash those? Disgusting,_ and she gets him back by putting her toes in his face and he tries to push them frantically away, complaining about how he doesn’t want to catch the bubonic plague or something that obviously comes from Karen. Somewhere along the line Arthur staggers off, kissing her sloppily on the mouth and Matt looks away—all she can taste is beer and oranges.

Matt and Karen are amongst the last to leave (meaning that it’s 4am and Richard is trying to chuck people out) but Karen whinges about how she wants a cigarette so Matt pulls her out onto the balcony, where it’s relatively quiet apart from the people below trying to get home in relative states of drunkenness. She fumbles around in her bag so pathetically that Matt ends up doing it for her, even going as far as lighting it and placing it between her lips. She inhales deeply, her knuckles turning white round the iron of the balcony to prevent her from lurching over. She passes the cigarette over to Matt, who doesn’t even smoke, and he ends up spluttering and choking and he throws the dratted thing over the side, sparks trailing like a pathetic firework. Karen almost collapses with laughter.

Give me another, Kaz. I’ll do it right this time. I’ll do rings and everything.

Slow down, Kurt Cobain. Wouldn’t want you to get addicted.

Like you, you mean?

I’m not _addicted,_ Matthew. I’m just temporarily dependant.

If that’s true, then, I’m _also_ temporarily dependant.

What? After one cigarette? God, Matt you don’t—

No, not on cigarettes, idiot. I’m temporarily dependant on _you._ Maybe without the temporary part. Possibly permanently. It’s hard to tell, yet.

…Oh.

(The night ends like that. With Matt’s fingers knotted in her hair and her lips colliding with his, her whole body thrown in to the kiss. He doesn’t mind the taste of nicotine when it’s in her mouth, he decides, even though he’s so past drunk that it could taste like anything and he wouldn’t care. It’s cold and her hands her numb but her lips are hot and furious. At one point it starts snowing and they discover it’s 5 am, and Karen’s ready to pass out and Richard hauls them inside, muttering curse words profusely— _how the fuck did I not realise that this was obviously going to happen.)_

***

_I’ll do_

_Whatever you say to me_

_In the dark._

-       End of Part One.


End file.
